


run from this

by ToAStranger



Series: Luster [13]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Werewolf Courting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 00:36:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4158900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stuck in Beacon Hills under doctor's orders, Stiles struggles to make a decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> This one has no prompt. I mean, it's kind of an idea that has sprung from a lot of comments. 
> 
> I'm expecting it to be approximately five to seven chapters. Feedback is always welcome.

“Stiles—“

“Absolutely not,” he says, already about to close the door.

Deucalion’s hand shoots out, palm smacking against the door as his jaw goes tight. In his other hand is a bouquet of tulips.

“Please,” he says, voice tight.

Stiles pauses, still in nothing but his pajamas. He blinks tiredly at Deucalion and sighs.

“Talk.”

“I just wanted… to check on you,” Deucalion says, shoulders easing somewhat. “How are you feeling?”

“Like someone cracked my ribcage open and poked around inside for a bit,” Stiles states.

Deucalion flinches.

“We didn’t—We didn’t think that you would suffer these particular effects,” Deucalion mutters, confession quiet. “We would have warned you if we’d thought this could happen. I am truly sorry, Xenyck—“

“You don’t get to call me that,” Stiles says, crossing his arms tight over his chest.

Deucalion’s lips thin, but he nods. “I understand. I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” Stiles says after a second.

There is a singing bird in the distance. The blue light of dusk makes Stiles look more pale than he should, makes the dark circles under his eyes more vivid. Stiles watches Deucalion look him over, sees the man’s fingers twitch, wonders if he wants to touch him as badly as Stiles wants to be touched.

Inhaling sharply, Stiles tips his chin up, straightening out. Deucalion’s eyes dart up to his.

“If that’s all?” Stiles starts, moving to close the door again.

“How--?” Deucalion cuts himself off, but Stiles stills, lets him continue. “How long will you be staying at home?”

“A week,” Stiles sighs, hand dragging messily through his hair, mussing it. “Melissa wrote me a note stating that I have pneumonia so that I can stay home and rest for a bit before heading back to school. I’m having Lydia forward me notes and homework.”

Deucalion hums, nods, smiles small and hopeful. “May I—May I see you?”

“You’re seeing me right now,” Stiles tells him, tone droll.

Deucalion’s smile twitches broader. “May I come see you again?”

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. That hollow in his chest aches again. He shrugs a shoulder.

“Maybe.”

Deucalion holds himself taller, eyes bright and excited on Stiles’ face; he holds out the bouquet. “I’ll come by tomorrow to see.”

Stiles scrutinizes the lush red petals. He takes it with tentative hands.

* * *

He goes out that night. They head to the movies—Scott’s treat—and it’s expectedly empty for a Sunday. The smell of popcorn is heady, and Stiles’ stomach rumbles. Scott laughs and buys a large.

“For refills,” he tells Stiles.

Because they’ll end up throwing half the bowl at the screen while they make fun of the film.

It’s some shitty horror flick. They jump a couple of times and make fun of each other for it. When the movie is done, they walk out, still laughing into the yawning night. They’re still laughing when Peter and Deucalion emerge from the diner on the corner, but Stiles falters when he sees them, when they come walking towards him.

Scott puts a hand on his back, steadies him, and Stiles greets the two of them with a tight smile. Peter and Deucalion return it, coming to a slow stop in front of them.

“Stiles,” Peter says, and his expression is more forced than Deucalion’s. “Deucalion told me you’d be staying in town for a while.”

“A week,” Stiles corrects.

Peter nods stiffly. “Good.”

“Is it?”

Peter’s jaw goes tight.

Scott clears his throat. “We, uh… we should get home, right, Stiles?”

“Right,” Stiles mutters, gaze lingering on the two of them before he tears his eyes away to meet Scott’s worried gaze; he gives him a crooked smile and tugs out his car keys, holding them out. “Go get the jeep and bring it around?”

Scott hesitates. Then he takes them. “I’ll be right back.”

Stiles does not wait for him to walk away before turning his focus back to Peter and Deucalion. They stand, waiting, rigid in their impatience. In their expectation. Stiles breathes in deep and lets it out slow.

“Say what it is that you want to say,” Stiles tells them. “I don’t have time to be playing these stupid games anymore.”

“None of this has ever been a game,” Peter sneers. “I’m not sure what makes you think it is.”

“Gee, I dunno,” Stiles’ face twists—mockingly perplexed. “Maybe it’s because you seem so keen on treating it like one.”

Peter opens his mouth, probably to argue, but Deucalion cuts him off at the start. “Stiles, I assure you, while it may appear that way to you, we do not think of our courtship as a game. And we do not want to argue.”

“Then what _do_ you want?”

“We want to apologize,” Deucalion says, earnest. “We want to ask you for the opportunity to earn your trust again.”

“I won’t let you court me again,” Stiles tells them.

“That’s not what we’re asking,” Deucalion smiles, small and soft. “We’re asking—“

“—to make it up to you,” Peter finishes, jaw still tight, but his tone is resigned. “To try and be… _friends_.”

Stiles laughs. “Friends?”

“Is it really so hard to fathom?” Deucalion frowns.

Stiles glances between them. “Do you know why I’m so angry with you?”

“Because we mistreated you,” Deucalion states.

“Yes,” Stiles nods. “And no.”

The jeep pulls around the corner, sidling up to them at the curbside. Stiles holds up a hand for Scott, and the jeep kicks into idle. Peter’s brows are pinched.

“No?” he asks.

“You tried to manipulate me,” Stiles says.

Peter is already shaking his head. “That’s not true—“

“It is,” Stiles replies, firm and unyielding. “You may not realize it, though I doubt that, but it’s what you were doing. You made me more than one promise—the _both of you_ made me promises that you broke the instant I did what you told me to do. You tried to guilt me—you _did_ guilt me for doing exactly what you promised me I was allowed to do.”

Both men look chided. Deucalion’s hands are flexing at his sides.

“What you did was mean. It was mean , it was manipulative, and it was _wrong_.” Stiles breathes. “Do you understand that?”

Peter swallows and glances away.

Deucalion is the one that speaks. “Yes. But Stiles, surely you must know, we did not _mean_ to hurt you. We would never want you to feel that way.”

“I—I think I do know that, yeah.” Stiles nods carefully. “Which is why—um, which is why I will let you try.”

Peter meets his gaze. Lips thinning, Stiles tucks his hands into his pockets, already edging towards the jeep.

“Tomorrow. The Java Bug at noon.”

Peter’s shoulders square as Stiles opens the passenger side door. “You’ll be there?”

“I will be,” Stiles nods. “It’s up to you if you want to meet me there.”

He does not give them time to reply. The door shuts firmly, and Scott shifts into gear. He waits until they are halfway home before asking.

“Are you giving them a second chance?”

Stiles stares down at his hands where they lay in his own lap. “I haven’t quite decided.”

When he looks up, the red of the traffic light filtering in through the windshield, Scott is studying him. His friend’s features are cast in shadows that make him appear so much older than he really is. Stiles hates that he can make him look this way.

“I’ll back you,” Scott says in something like a whisper, breathy and heated; earnest. “No matter what you decide. I’ll back you.”

The light turns green.


	2. Monday

_How are you feeling?_

Stiles sighs softly, thumb hovering over the screen of his phone. The clatter and low hum of people in the café around him has his ears buzzing. It’s nearly noon. He’s tempted to call her; instead he swipes across the screen and taps out his reply.

_I’m fine. Too be honest, I’m starting to miss Phys 103._

There’s a short pause, then his phone vibrates in his palm. _I’m starting to miss you in Phys 103. That class is boring._

Stiles snorts. He knows Lydia has been regretting not taking that particular AP exam because now she’s suffering through the general ed requirements in order to move forward with the classes she need for the major.

 _Of course you do, I’m a gem_ , Stiles replies, and the gif of Tina Fey rolling her eyes he gets in response is perfect.

“Stiles,” he looks up and Deucalion is standing across from him, smile small and polite. “May I?”

Stiles breathes deep and then nods. “Go for it.”

Deucalion slides the chair out and then sits, eyes glancing over the table. “Do you have a drink?”

“No,” Stiles shakes his head.

“Would you like me to get you one?” Deucalion asks, already pushing back onto his feet, even as Stiles shakes his head again.

A steaming mug is placed on the round table between them, and they both look up at where Peter is sipping his own drink. The line of Stiles’ shoulders drops. Deucalion tentatively eases himself back down into his seat, and Peter grabs another from a nearby table in order to take his spot between them.

Lips thinning, Stiles clears his throat and mutters a quiet thank you before drawing the coffee across the lacquered surface and towards himself. Peter grins, glancing briefly at Deucalion before focusing on Stiles.

“Did I interrupt anything?” he asks.

Stiles closes his eyes, fingers curving around the porcelain of his cup, feeling the warmth radiate against his palm. “This isn’t a measuring game, Peter.”

“Pardon?” he asks.

When Stiles looks at him, it is dry and it is irritated. He leans in, voice just low enough, tone droll.

“I said that this isn’t a measuring game,” Stiles repeats, glancing down at Peter’s lap, and then back up. “So you can put your dick away.”

Peter’s grin falters, then slips away entirely. He shifts in his chair, clearing his throat as he sets his cup down onto the table.

“Right,” Peter mutters. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” Stiles frowns, leaning away and slumping back against his seat. “But whatever. I’m not here to try and get the both of you to act like, oh, I dunno… adults?”

Peter’s jaw goes tight.

“Do you think the two of you can stop peacocking for five seconds so that you can actually try and fix what it is that you messed up?” Stiles asks.

Deucalion’s chin tilts up, smugness just under the surface.

Stiles hums. “Apparently not.”

* * *

“So, let me try and understand this,” the Sheriff mutters around a mouth full of casserole. “You broke off your courtship after Peter and Deucalion pulled some teenie bopper drama, which you called and told me about. Then you got sick with some crazy supernatural illness _because_ you broke it off. Now, you’re here and getting better, but they’re trying to get back in your good graces.”

Stiles pauses, chewing, and then nods. “Yes, yes, and yes.”

“Okay,” the Sheriff nods. “But now they’re just acting like you’re still courting—buying you things, flirting, what have you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs. “Talking about anything and everything _but_ what it is that they did wrong.”

The Sheriff’s brows pinch. “Which was scold you for doing something they told you that you could do.”

“And something that they promised wouldn’t be an issue back when the courtship was still… newish.” Stiles confirms.

Humming, the Sheriff eats a few bites, and then lifts a brow. “What are you going to do?”

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Stiles huffs, then glances down at his meal. “I’m gonna see a man about a cure.”


	3. Tuesday

“You know,” Deaton mutters, in the midst of checking a small lab’s ears. “I thought something was odd when you stopped showing up to try and steal my books.”

Stiles bites the inside of his lips to keep from smiling. Glancing up from the young pup on his table, Deaton gives him a knowing look from beneath his brows. Stiles shrugs.

“What can I say?” Stiles smiles, crooked and nonchalant. “They gave me things you never would have let me even touch.”

Huffing, Deaton grabs a q-tip and folds the dog’s ear back carefully. “But?”

“But now we’re done, now I’m suffering some kind of mystical sickness caused by the separation, and now I need your help.” Stiles says, nose wrinkling as Deaton begins to clean out the lab’s ear.

“You want me to help you mend the bond?” Deaton asks.

“I want you to help me break it.”

Deaton pauses, looking back up at him, and there is a lengthy moment where he doesn’t say a thing. Stiles’ weight shifts from foot to foot.

“Alright,” Deaton nods. “Let me finish this up, and we’ll figure something out.”

Stiles smiles. “Thank you.”

* * *

“I thought you were giving them a second chance,” Scott mutters, brows pinched, and the sound of bullets flying nearly drowns out the comment.

“I am. I’m also just devising a back-up plan for when they fuck things up again.” Stiles replies, pushing to his feet abruptly, and yelling into his mic. “Oh, come on, you fucking twat! Stop stealing my kills!”

Over their headphones, Scott and Stiles hear J.T. laughing. Stiles spits out another curse. Biting the inside of his cheek, Scott swallows a laugh.

“ _Stop fucking dolphin diving after your tags, bitch._ ” J.T. replies, and Scott barks out a sharp laugh.

“I’m gonna smother you in your sleep when I get home,” Stiles grunts, plopping back down onto the couch. “Get to Suzy’s bedroom, Suzy and all her friends are having a sleepover.”

“Suzy’s bedroom?” Scott balks, still chuckling.

“ _That’s what he’s been calling quadrant niner for this map,”_ J.T. snorts.

“Jesus, Stiles.” Scott shakes his head.

“Shut up,” Stiles swats him. “It works. Get your head in the game. And get your ass down to the school crossing and take out that sniper.”

“ _Your friend is fucked up, Scotty_.”

“Believe me,” Scott snorts. “I know.”

* * *

It’s nearly midnight when someone knocks on his window pane. He knows that it’s one of them—Peter or Deucalion—and he sighs from where he’s curved over the tome Deaton gave him earlier. Pushing away from his desk, Stiles twists around, blinking tiredly at where Peter is crouched outside his window. He wants nothing more than to pretend he didn’t hear it, but Peter is staring at him with bright blue eyes and a tight grimace over his mouth.

Ambling to his feet, Stiles pads over and unlatches the window. Sliding it open, he takes a step back and watches Peter crawl into his room.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks in a tired, soft breath.

Peter smoothes down his shirt and clears his throat. “I came to talk.”

“Oh?” Stiles’ brows shoot up, and he crosses his arms over his chest.

“Yes,” Peter nods, eyes flitting away, over Stiles’ shoulder to his desk. “What are you reading?”

Stepping over, Stiles blocks his view, smile tight. “Does it matter?”

Hesitating, Peter shakes his head. “Of course not. Just curious.”

“You came to talk?” Stiles prompts.

“Right,” Peter meets his gaze, shuffles forward a step, then two. “I just… wanted to come and apologize. I realize it’s not much, but… I thought it might be a good step.”

Stiles stares at him for a long, quiet moment. “Well… thanks. It is a good step.”

Peter’s inhales slow, an easy, satisfied look curving over his face. “Good.”

The space between them disappears. Peter steps close, and Stiles’ brows go up. Fingers curve over Stiles’ jaw, and his body reacts quicker than his mind, leaning into the touch and gasping. Peter hums, thumb brushing over Stiles’ cheek, and Stiles shivers.

“I’ve missed you,” Peter tells him, leaning in.

“What are you--?” Stiles’ protest is lost somewhere between his lips and Peter’s.

The kiss leaves Stiles weak. His knees go, and heat sparks through him in a way he hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever. Heart tripping over itself, Stiles lets out a soft sound against Peter’s mouth, hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders. Peter’s arm drapes heavy around Stiles’ waist.

Canting his head, Peter tugs Stiles closer, lips parting his lips so that his tongue can slide slick to meet with Stiles’. Another muffled sound hums between them. Stiles’ skin feels tight, holding something inside of him that he doesn’t understand. When Peter’s hand slips up the back of Stiles’ shirt, fingers spreading out wide over his lower back, the scorching heat of it shocks through Stiles’ system.

He jerks back, pushing at Peter’s chest. Frowning, Peter takes a step back, and Stiles lets out a shaky breath as he pushes Peter further. He’s already shaking his head, jaw working as he swallows a few times, the taste of Peter still lingering—sage and ash.

“You can’t—“ Stiles’ voice cracks, and he closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can’t just kiss me, Peter.”

“I thought—“

“I don’t _care_ what you thought,” Stiles half yells. “You don’t just—You don’t just say sorry and suddenly everything is okay, again, Peter.”

“I’m sorry—“

“ _Stop_ ,” Stiles sighs, gesturing feebly to the window. “Just… go. I need to get some sleep.”

Peter, for maybe the first time in his existence, listens without protest. Stiles shuts the window behind him.

When he’s sure that he is alone, Stiles walks across the room and turns off the light. In the darkness of his room, he touches his fingertips to his lips, eyes on his window. His chest aches in a familiar way. The sensation has engraved itself into his bones: longing.

For the first time since he decided to give up on the pipe dream of Deucalion and Peter, he doubts himself. He doubts everything.

He shuts the text on his desk and crawls into bed.


	4. Wednesday

“So?”

Scott glances up from the book spread open on Stiles’ desk, brows pinched. Lips thinning, Stiles drums his fingers against his arms where they are crossed over his chest. He practically bounces, impatient but waiting, and then springs forward to point at the instructions on the page.

“It’s simple,” Stiles insists.

“It...” Scott tilts his head, sighs, and looks back up at Stiles. “It sounds dangerous.”

“Scott,” Stiles claps him on the shoulder, smile crooked but tight. “I need you to back me up with this.”

Grimacing, Scott sighs again, the line of his shoulders going slack. “You know I’ll always back you up. I just... I don’t want you getting hurt any more than you already have.”

Stiles squeezes. “Thanks, man.”

Reaching up, Scott rests his hand over where Stiles’ is still gripping his shoulder. “Wanna play a round of CS:GO first?”

Stiles beams. “You know me so well.”

* * *

Derek shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”

“Derek—“

“No,” he says, tone firm, holding out a hand and Stiles’ mouth snaps shut with a click. “It’s different, Stiles. With werewolves, we can heal. If there is even one wrong movement, I could paralyze you. Permanently.”

“I know,” Stiles nods, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Derek, I know that, I really do. But I need you to help me—“

“There has to be another way to deal with this,” Derek frowns as he rests back on the couch across from him.

“The only other way to deal with this is to wait it out,” Stiles says. “And that could be _months_ , Derek. Not days. Not weeks. _Months_ of feeling like I’m being torn up from the inside out. I can’t keep going on like this.”

Derek’s lips press into a tight line. He stares at Stiles for a long, quiet moment.

“Derek,” Stiles mutters, begging, a fraction of a second away from dropping to his knees. “ _Please_.”

“Why can’t Scott do it?”

Stiles’ brow shoots up. “Really? You want _Scott_ to sink his claws into the back of my neck?”

Groaning, Derek scrubs a hand over his face, then throws them out—surrender. “Fine, yeah, _fine_. When?”

“As soon as I finish getting the ingredients I need,” Stiles smiles. “Tomorrow, hopefully.”

“Tomorrow,” Derek sighs, nose wrinkling. “Alright. Just... let me know when. We’ll do it here.”

“Thank you,” Stiles breathes, reaching across the space between them to squeeze at Derek’s knee. “Thank you, seriously.”

“Yeah,” Derek grunts, waving him off. “Go get what you need. Bring Scott with you when you’re ready. I’ll need him to hold you steady.”

Stiles swallows thickly, but nods. “You got it.”

* * *

“ _What else do you need_?” Lydia asks.

Stiles huffs, breath sharp as he marches through the brush of the Preserve. “Raven’s feathers.”

“ _And you’re expecting to find those where?”_

“The woods?” Stiles tries.

Lydia laughs. “ _Good luck._ ”

“Thanks,” Stiles mumbles dryly. “Load of confidence, you are. Real helpful.”

“ _Sorry,”_ she says, completely unapologetic. “ _I hope you find it, really. I hope it works. I hope you don’t get hurt. I hope you come back to school soon._ ”

Stiles smiles, stopping long enough to lean against the steady trunk of a tree. “I will. I just have to settle this. For myself mostly.”

“ _Well, that’s what matters, right? This is about you taking care of you._ ”

“Easier said than done,” he sighs, shivers, and laughs quietly. “It’s getting cold here.”

“ _Already?_ ”

“Already,” Stiles mutters, lets his eyes close, and breathes deep. “It’s nice. But the sun is nearly gone. I should keep looking while I still have some light.”

“ _Get home_ ,” Lydia tells him. “ _The feathers will be there come morning._ ”

“Miss you.”

“ _Miss you too_ ,” she says before the line goes dead.

Stiles tucks his phone away in the pocket of his hoody. He stays for a moment, leaning against the solid wood of the tree, the constant ache he has felt in his chest for the last month ebbing a little—as if the world is taking some of the weight from him.

There is a rustle. He twists around abruptly, finds Deucalion standing there, and frowns.

“Stiles,” he greets, head dipping slightly.

“Are you following me?” he asks, voice tight.

“Would you believe me if I told you no?” Deucalion asks.

“No,” Stiles shakes his head.

Deucalion hums. “Then I won’t bother lying to you. Yes.”

Looking away, Stiles scoffs and wraps his arms around himself. He shakes his head, feeling heavy, like he always does these days. Deucalion takes a tentative step forward, and Stiles reflects it with a step back.

Holding out his hands, Deucalion grimaces. “I’m sorry.”

“You aren’t,” Stiles mumbles. “You both keep saying you are, but you keep doing stupid shit like this.”

“You’re right,” Deucalion tells him, then digs into the deep pockets of a very soft looking coat before offering up a sleek, purple-black feather. “Here.”

Stiles meets his gaze with wide eyes. “Duke—“

“It’s alright,” Deucalion smiles, a thin thing, holding it out for Stiles to take. “Raven’s feather. What you need, right?”

For a very long moment, there is nothing but the slow rustle of leaves shifting, falling, settling. Nothing but the air between them. Stiles’ heart thuds heavy in his ears, his lips part, and he shuffles forward.

“You know what I’m doing?” he asks, voice quiet.

“Yes,” Deucalion nods.

“And?”

“And I’m sorry that you feel like you need to,” Deucalion says. “I’m sorry that you’re in so much pain.”

“You aren’t going to fight me on this? Beg me not to?”

“To be honest, the thought did cross my mind.” Deucalion smiles. “But no. Breaking the bond that’s forged in you won’t keep it from one day forming again. But it will offer the relief you need. The relief you deserve.”

Stiles’ lips press together so tight they pale. “Does Peter--?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He’s not... happy,” Deucalion laughs. “But neither am I.”

Stiles steps closer. He reaches out, hesitates, then takes the feather in hand gingerly. Their fingers linger before Stiles steps away again. He tucks the feather away carefully into his own coat pocket.

Nothing but the breeze again. It is whispering of coming nightfall. The sky is growing dark as day fades. Like a new world being birthed.

“Thank you,” Stiles says.

“You’re welcome,” Deucalion nods, licks his lips, and pauses.

Stiles lifts a brow.

“I’d like to kiss you,” Deucalion tells him. “Just in case it’s the last time.”

“...okay.”

The press of Deucalion’s body is familiar. Firm, warm, unyielding. He wraps Stiles up in his arms, tilts his head, and slants their mouths together. The tips of Stiles’ fingers tingle.

It is a languid, lingering thing. Deucalion does not pull away for a long time. When he does, he hovers close, one hand curved over the side of Stiles’ face. His thumb brushes back and forth over the flush of Stiles’ cheek, and he smiles.

“Thank you,” Deucalion says.

Stiles returns his expression, but his own is wavering. “You’re welcome.”

Stiles walks home alone. When he gets there, his father is waiting with dinner. The Sheriff takes one look at him when he comes through the door and pulls him into a tight embrace. Stiles cries.


	5. Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh... This chapter has some pretty fucked up imagery. Sorry.

“That smells rank, dude.”

Stiles’ nose wrinkles.  “Well, it’s a good thing _you_ don’t have to drink it, then.”

Scott nods, a bit haplessly, eyes darting from the goopy mixture, to Stiles’ face, and back again.  From across the loft, Derek pinches his nose.

“Go over it one more time,” he mutters.

“I down this, you go all claw happy at my neck area, there’s some kind of spirit walk bullshit, and I break the bond between Deucalion, Peter, and myself.  Then I go back to school, cram for finals, and question any and all of my life choices for the next five years.”  Stiles states, tone chipper in a way that it shouldn’t be, pacing towards the center of the room.

“I hold him still,” Scott adds, looking a bit green.  “Through the claw and neck portion.”

 “Exactly.”

Derek glances between them, then shakes his head.  “This is a really bad idea.”

“Probably,” Stiles nods.  “Shall we?”

They sit Stiles down in a sturdy wooden chair at the center of the room.  He fidgets, mostly with the mug full of off grey liquid, looking suddenly so unsure. 

Scott stands in front of him, placing his hands on Stiles’ shoulders; a steady pressure that Stiles is silently grateful for.  He offers a lopsided smile that Stiles carefully returns.  Behind him, Derek positions himself, claws _snicking_ out sharply.  Stiles shivers.

“You’re sure about this?” Derek frowns.

“As sure as I’ll ever be,” Stiles huffs, holding the mug up.  “Cheers.”

He chugs it down in thick gulps.  It slides down his throat like molasses, and his chest tingles a moment before it starts to burn.  He sputters, mug clattering from his hand to the floor, and he hears Derek distantly order Scott to hold him steady.

Then there is pain.  Derek’s claws slide into place along the vertebrae of his neck.  He lets out a strained sound, jerking, but Scott’s got a strong hold on him.  The burning in his chest spreads.  His fingers go numb.  His eyes rolls back.

Somewhere, a door slams open.

* * *

 

Stiles wakes wrapped up in familiar sheets.  He goes flush, remembering the last time he’d been in his bed.  Remembering being pressed between Peter and Deucalion, happy and exhausted.  He pushes up slow, stiff and unsure.  Sunlight streams in through the window.

It smells like summer.  Stiles lets out a content sound, sinking back against the pillows just as the bedroom door opens.

“Morning, love.” Deucalion smiles, padding over, half naked with a cup of coffee.  “Sleep well?”

The tips of Stiles’ ears go pink.  “Yes.  Very.  You?”

“About the same,” Deucalion tells him, offering the cup. 

Stiles takes it but frowns down at the murky grey of it.  “Thanks.  Where’s Peter?”

“Cooking breakfast.”

“Awesome,” Stiles grins, setting the mug on the bedside table, this entire situation tasting like déjà vu.  “Wanna fool around until he’s finished?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Their mouths meet and Stiles hums.  Canting his head, Stiles parts his lips, inviting Deucalion to press deeper.

He expects to taste peppermint, the way he always does, but instead he chokes on a thick, viscuous fluid that flows from Deucalion’s mouth and into his own.  Jerking back, Stiles blinks, frowning up at Deucalion.  He wonders how they got under the sheets together, skin on skin, doesn’t remember Deucalion climbing into bed with him, or when Deucalion’s large hands managed to catch his wrists in such a vice grip.

“What--?”

“Hush, now.” Deucalion coos, eyes bleeding red as he smiles down with sharp teeth.  “This is what you wanted.”

The noise of protest catches somewhere in his throat.  Deucalion kisses him again, licking past the part of Stiles’ lips.  Their tongues meet and Stiles tastes something like oil—slick, shiny, _black_ —easing over his palate, coating his throat, filling his chest.

He moans, arching, then jerks.  He seizes beneath Deucalion’s weight.  Heart stammering, Stiles wails softly, the sound of it muffled and wet.  He sputters, coughs, chokes. 

Deucalion doesn’t stop.

* * *

 

“— _don’t stop_ ,” Stiles gasps, clutching—or trying to—at the porcelain tiles of his shower wall.

“Wouldn’t imagine it,” Peter assures.

He presses his fingers deeper.  Stiles mewls, spine curving forward delicately. 

“You’re beautiful,” he tells him.

Stiles squirms.

“I can’t wait to have you,” Peter breathes against his shoulder, flush at his back, equally as naked under the hot rush of water.  “To be in you.  To claim you.  To make you mine.”

Stiles whimpers.  He wants, he wants, he _wants_ —

Peter’s free hand curves around to take Stiles’ jaw in a steady grip.  He tips Stiles’ head back, finds his mouth and kisses him hard, hungry, and desperate.

When it breaks, there is ash on Stiles’ tongue, something black and oozing slipping past his lips as he gasps, bucks, writhes.  Peter is relentless.

“Come for me,” he says.

Stiles does.

* * *

 

“Are you alright?”

Peter’s fingers are gentle at his cheek.  Stiles loves this.  Stiles hates this.  He doesn’t know where he is.

“No,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not.”

“I am,” Peter insists.  “I just don’t know how.  I don’t’ want to lose you.”

Stiles’ eyes burn.  “It’s too late for that.”

“I know.”

“Kiss me?” Stiles asks, voice cracking.

He does.  It’s sweet.  It lingers.  It still tastes like goodbye.

* * *

 

Stiles can’t stop running.

He’s scared.  He can barely breathe.  There’s something roiling in his chest; thick like tar and burning.  His whole body is burning.

Someone calls his name.

He cannot stop running.

* * *

 

Someone slaps him.  He gasps, pain sharp at his cheek, and he blinks past the sudden rush of vertigo.  A fist curls into his shirt, pulling, and Stiles is breathless in the shock of heat that comes from behind tugged from the tub of ice. 

He remembers this.  This happened years ago.  Derek slaps him again.

Wait.  That’s wrong.

“Derek?”

“Come on, Stiles,” Derek grunts, eyes vivid and red in the dim light of Deaton’s office.  “You have to finish this.  You have to cut them out.”

“Cut them--?”

“ _You have to cut them out_.”

Somewhere, two wolves howl.

* * *

 

 _Stiles_.

He stirs.  Turns over in bed.  The sheets smell like the same detergent his mom used to use.  They haven’t smelled like this since he was a child.  Someone’s fingers are petting through his hair.

 _Stiles, sweetheart_. 

Groaning, he turns over again, hiding his head beneath a pillow.  He doesn’t want to wake up. 

_Stiles!_

* * *

 

The ground is solid beneath him.  He opens his eyes, squinting through the pitch to see a fire crackling.  There’s a bottle of Jack he swiped from his dad in the ninth grade, but Scott is nowhere in sight.  His head hurts.

The sound of gurgling catches his attention.  He pushes up from the mess of dirt and leaves, peering across the flames to the figures across from him.  Peter’s eyes are blue; glowing and effervescent, reflecting light back at him.  Peter smiles, and Stiles frowns.

There’s a woman in his arms.  It takes him a moment before he recognizes her.  The witch.  The witch that—

Deucalion glances back at him, claws dripping red.  The witch lets out another sticky, wet noise.  Black bubbles over her mouth.  Stiles remembers them killing her.  For him. 

Deucalion’s eyes are so red. 

He looks to Peter, smiles with long fangs, and leans in.  They kiss, and Stiles feels something in his chest tug taut.  Peter lets the witch drop, a boneless heap on the ground.  Stiles feels sick.  He cannot stop watching them.

His ears are ringing.  Someone says his name.

* * *

 

There’s bacon sizzling in the frying pan.  Stiles hums as he cooks, cutting the bananas carefully.  He smiles as arms wrap around him from behind, lips pressing beneath his ear.

“Morning,” Peter rumbles. 

“Good morning.”

From the kitchen table, Deucalion rolls his eyes, focus on the newspaper as he sips his coffee.  “Hello to you, too.”

Peter huffs, pulling away, and Stiles grins lopsidedly as he watches Peter pad over, half naked and sleep mussed, to peck Deucalion chastely on the cheek.  “Happy?”

“Hardly.”

Stiles falters.  “That’s not right.”

“What isn’t, love?” Deucalion glances over.

Something’s burning.  The bacon pops. 

Stiles twists around to face the both of them.  They’re sitting at the table; Peter steals the business section from the paper and a sip of Deucalion’s coffee.  In the warm glow of the morning light, it looks picture perfect.  Stiles clutches at the knife still in his hand, sticky with banana for the pancakes.

“This,” Stiles breathes.  “You don’t say that now.  We haven’t—this isn’t right.”

Peter frowns over at him.  “You’re not making much sense, Stiles.”

The bacon pops again, nearly burning him.  Stiles hisses and steps away.  When he looks over at the pan, the meat is charred at the edges.  There’s smoke in the room.

He blinks, swallows thickly, and finds his throat sore.  Peter calls to him first.  Then Deucalion.  Stiles blinks back over at them, so slow it’s unreal.

“Are you alright, love?” Deucalion’s brows are creased with concern.

“You look pale,” Peter adds.

Stiles’ gaze drops to the knife in his hand.  “I’m fine.”

He drives it into his chest.  Someone screams.

* * *

 

The sun is too bright on the beach.  Stiles squints up at it, shading his eyes with a hand.  Lydia is to his right, Mickey to his left.  The sound of the waves crashing against the shore drowns out everything else. 

“You’re turning pink,” Lydia chirps.

Stiles glances down at his sternum, propped up on one elbow, and see the whole in his chest.  It’s black—endlessly, ceaselessly black.  Stiles wonders where his heart wandered off to.

“Huh,” he mutters, holding a hand out. 

Lydia places the bottle of sunscreen in his hand.

* * *

 

When he wakes, there are threads.  Threads stretching everywhere and all around.  He stares at them, at their brilliant colors, and smiles as two bodies cocoon around him. 

“Don’t scare us like that again,” Peter says.

Stiles’ brows draw together, but Peter is kissing him.  Viscous black drips down his throat.  Stiles shudders, twitches, groans.  He thinks someone tells him _I love you_.

“Like what?” he asks, when they break apart, lips stained and smeared.

Deucalion draws him into another kiss.  This one is slower.  The black spreads from his mouth, to his chest, to his heart.  It pumps through his veins. 

“With the knife,” Deucalion murmurs, wiping the mess away from his mouth as he pulls back.

“We thought we might lose you,” Peter says.

“But I’m right here.”

Peter shakes his head.  “It’s not the same.”

Stiles squirms.  “What if it’s what I want?”

“We want you,” Deucalion replies.  “That’s what matters.”

The _that’s not fair_ dies on his lips.  Peter is too busy kissing him again.  Feeding him again.  Filling him with magic. 

It feels good.  He’s scared.

* * *

 

 _Come on, Stiles_!

He blinks.  He’s alone in the Preserve.  He thinks he’s supposed to be somewhere.

 _Stiles, please_.

Something tugs at his chest.  He frowns and looks down.  There’s a thread there.  Red and dripping.  Extending into the distance.  Stiles reaches for it and pulls. 

Pain is electric through him.  His legs go weak; he falls to his knees, breathless and panting.  In his chest, his heart is pounding, stuttering, stammering.  He reaches for the thread again.  He yanks.  It tears into his hands, sliding through the meat of his palms.  It seems never ending.  He thinks he screams.

_You can do it.  You can do this._

When it comes free, Stiles collapses.  He huffs into the dirt, cheek pressed to the cold ground, and feels hollow.  When he cries, it shakes his entire body.  He sobs until he can’t anymore.

“Are you happy?” Peter asks him.

“I will be.  You will be too.  Both of you.”

“Are you sure?” Deucalion frowns.

Stiles smiles.  “Yes.”

Somewhere, a door slams open.

* * *

 

Stiles sputters back to awareness.  Behind him, Derek hisses and pulls his claws free.

Falling from the chair, Stiles lurches over, and vomits up the color black.  He doesn’t stop until his stomach stops heaving; trembling and sweaty, his hair sticking to his forehead.  He nearly collapses forward into the mess, but Derek catches him under the chest and hauls him up. 

Across the loft, Scott is standing in front of the wide open door, growling at Peter and Deucalion.  Haplessly, Stiles waves.

“Hey, guys.”

Scott doesn’t stop growling.


	6. Friday

Someone knocks on his bedroom door.  Stiles twists around, peering over his shoulder at where his father is leaning against the jamb, and offers a bright smile.  The Sheriff returns it with a crooked grin of his own.

“Hey, kid.”

“Pop-adopoulos,” Stiles greets before turning his focus back on his half empty suitcase and the pile of clean laundry next to it.  “What’s up?”

“I’m off to work,” he says.  “And you have guests.”

Stiles pauses mid-fold, then finishes with deliberate movements.  He places the shirt in his suitcase, then turns to face his father fully.

“Who is it?”

“Deucalion and Peter,” the Sheriff says, eyes searching his son’s face.  “Were you expecting them?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Stiles smiles.  It’s a wistful thing.  The Sheriff hasn’t seen his son so lighthearted in months.  He likes it.

“I was,” Stiles nods.  “Tell them to wait downstairs for me?  I want to finish this up.”

“Of course,” the Sheriff pushes off of the jamb slow.  “You gonna be okay?”

Stiles’ smile broadens.  “I’ve never been better.”

Hesitating, the Sheriff hovers for another moment before nodding.  “Alright.  I’ll tell them to wait.”

“Thanks, dad.”

“Sure thing, kiddo.”

* * *

 

When Stiles comes downstairs, his father is still lingering in the kitchen.  Stiles assures him softly, patting his shoulder before sending him on his way.  There’s work to do in Beacon Hills, and Stiles is more than capable of handling himself.

After he’s left, Stiles meanders into the living room where Deucalion and Peter are sat.  They stand upon seeing him, looking nervous and twitchy, in a way that Stiles had never seen them before.  He takes a moment to look the both of them over from the archway.  They’re both so tentative now.

It sends a wash of relief through him—just as it did yesterday evening, upon finding them at Derek’s loft just after his dreamwalk, there to protest Stiles’ decision, or perhaps because they could feel his distress—to not feel the mystical, unnatural pull toward them in his chest.  He looks at them and feels attraction, the way he always had, but there is no dire tug at his heart.  There is no other influence but his own lingering desires for the men he has come to care a great deal for.

“Sit,” he tells them.

They do.

“How are you feeling?” Deucalion asks, and Stiles can see the hope in his features.

“Great,” Stiles smiles, padding over and taking the spot opposite them.  “Much better than I was.”

Peter’s jaw works.  “That’s… good.”

“So,” Stiles breathes after a long, heavy moment and palms the back of his head.

“When are you headed back to school?” Deucalion asks, voice rough, and he seems to color a bit before clearing his throat.

“Gonna head out tomorrow,” Stiles mutters.  “I have a lot of work to catch up on after—well, you know.”

“Of course,” Deucalion looks away.

At his side, Peter twitches.  There’s a visible agitation about him.

“Why did you--?” his mouth curls into a sneer; angry and hurt.  “ _How_ could you--?”

“I’m not like you.”

Peter stalls, brows drawing together.  “What?”

“I’m not a wolf,” Stiles sighs.  “I’m not like you.  I—The bond that formed while we were courting is not something I ever wanted or something that was fair to me.  I’m just—I’m _just_ a human.”

“You are not _just_ anything, Stiles.” Deucalion says, so earnest that it aches.

Stiles offers him a tentative smile.

“I don’t understand,” Peter admits, shoulders tight.

Blinking at him, Stiles frowns.  “What don’t you understand?”

“You were happy,” he insists.  “ _We_ were happy.  I don’t—It all fell apart, and now there’s this…”

“Absence?”

Peter looks up at Stiles sharply.  His eyes are glowing blue in the dim light of the living room.

There is a moment.  It’s another long and quiet one, only cut by the sound of morning song somewhere outside in the trees.  Deucalion buries his face in his hands.  Jaw working, Peter nods.

“Absence.”

“That’ll go away,” Stiles says, assures, sage and constant as he looks between the two men who had been so much more than his lovers, so old in his young body.  “This is better.  For all of us.  None of us were ready.”

Peter has to look away.  Shifting, Stiles takes a slow, deep breath.  He wants to reach out, to comfort them, but he believes in his decision and knows it will only confuse them.  He has faith that what he did was what they all needed.  That it was _right_.

It doesn’t seem that way now.  Separation is always bittersweet, though.  Stiles knows they will ache for days; the severed thread connecting their hearts is still raw, still bleeding on some plane where there is nothing but trees.  They will heal.  It will just take time.

“ _Why_?” Peter finally asks.  “Why is this _better_?”

Stiles has been practicing these words for hours, has had them looping since yesterday in Derek’s loft when they found him and felt nothing but bereft.  He says them and knows them to be true.  “We weren’t ready.  We would have done nothing but hurt each other.”

“How can you be so sure?” Deucalion looks up at him, tired and resigned.

“There are factors,” Stiles tells them.  “I’m too young.  I’m not a werewolf.  There’s two of you.”

“We know all of this,” Peter frowns.

“It’s still true.”

“Why repeat it--?”

“It needs repeating, Peter.”  Stiles’ voice is firm, his features determined, and the two men across from him know it is a battle that has already been lost.  “If even _one_ of those factors were different—if I was older, if I was something more than human, if I understood the need you both have to create something permanent so quickly—everything would change.  But things are the way they are.  I’m young and I’m human—I won’t tie myself the way the both of you need me to.  I can’t.”

They’re disappointed.  Stiles can see in the slope of their shoulders. 

“Not _now_ ,” he adds softly.

Deucalion straightens, though.  He regards Stiles with that same hope—unbridled and bright—he had when they met in the Preserve two days previous. 

“Stiles,” he breathes.  “Are you--?  What are you saying?”

“I’m saying…  I’m saying that breaking the bond doesn’t mean that I don’t care for both of you.”  Stiles admits.  “I’m saying we all need time.”

They’re staring at him.  So hopeful.  So hungry. 

“Time,” Peter mumbles.  “Then what?”

Stiles shrugs, smile warm.  “Then we’ll just have to see where things take us.”


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are done! Thanks for sticking around for the ride.

The bell over the door chimes.  Peter glances up from his paper and grins.  Across from him, Deucalion rolls his eyes in annoyed fondness.

The café is bustling with people.  They were lucky to have gotten a table on a busy Sunday afternoon.  Three drinks sit on the table.  One of the chairs is empty until it’s not.

“Which one of you did it?” the newcomer asks, tone dry, but the older men are too busy taking him in.

His shoulders have broadened a bit.  Long fingers move to pluck up the coffee mug, and he hums, pleased to find its contents exactly how he likes.  There is a glow to his skin; the scent of turmeric clings to his clothes.  The lines at the corner of his eyes, at his mouth—evidence of too much laughter, of too many smiles—is the most enchanting change.

Peter takes a drink from his own cup.  He and Deucalion share a look.

“I’m quite sure I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Peter murmurs.

“How was India?” Deucalion asks.

“Fine,” bright eyes flit between them.  “Guys, come on, I’ve been home for _two days_.  The dead deer is a bit overkill.”

Deucalion hides a laugh behind his hand, tone chiding when it chokes out.  “ _Peter_.”

“What?” Peter blinks, a shoulder shrugging.  “ _He_ got to offer the big game last time.  It was my turn.”

Stiles, with a broad smile and eyes gleaming with mirth, leans forward.  “Are you trying to court me, Peter Hale?”

“Perhaps.  Are you interested?”

Humming, Stiles tilts his head, gaze dipping briefly before he offers the both of them a lopsided, mischievous grin.  “I guess ten years _is_ a long time to wait.”

Deucalion’s eyes are red and burning.  “Is that a yes?”

Stiles doesn’t hesitate: “Yes.”

Somewhere, a closed door opens.


End file.
